


Der Sturm

by GraphDesino



Series: 菊物語 [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historical Hetalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 11:51:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11577525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraphDesino/pseuds/GraphDesino
Summary: Some 19th-century historical Prussia/Japan. The word ‘fuck’ appears but otherwise SFW.  The title is a reference to Ludwig Van; I don’t know German but I couldn’t resist.





	Der Sturm

**Author's Note:**

> In the decades following the Meiji Restoration, Japan sought to modernize its army and navy by using militarily successful European nations as models. Until 1871, the Imperial Japanese Army was primarily based on the French army, but after France’s defeat in the Franco-Prussian War, the Japanese military began to style itself after that of the Germans.

In late December, 1888, a blizzard roared across the continent. It was hard to believe that the Berlin, its shop windows ablaze with candlelight and sparkling with tinsel, could so quickly descend into empty, frozen darkness. Yet once Christmas had passed, the storm fell like a thick cloth upon a fire, smothering the life out of the city.

Kiku’s world shrank to what he could see through the frost-flecked palace windows. He found himself wondering if he’d imagined it all – the rich smells, the stern but smiling faces, the ever-present rattle of carriages. After a few days of being trapped indoors, it was hard to remember anything but snow. Once, in a fit of claustrophobia, he made the mistake of trying to stroll through the Tiergarten one last time. But the moment he stepped outside, the howling wind bit right through his dark woolen coat, as though winter itself knew him to be a foreigner.

His host was snowed in, too. That was some minor consolation. Even the mighty Prussian was reluctant to ride through a blizzard.

* * *

Theirs was a cordial relationship – not unfriendly, as Gilbert was not an unfriendly person, but no more intimate than a professor and his adult student. Several months ago, Kiku had written to him asking to serve as his temporary ward. He would shadow Gilbert during military exercises and borrow freely from his library, in return for help with household chores (and “cultural exchange”, the exact meaning of which Kiku left open to interpretation). To his surprise, Gilbert had immediately agreed; Ludwig, the steely-eyed youth who normally did his bidding, had gone to Vienna for the winter, and Gilbert hated wasting his own precious time. The reply came quickly, and was in Gilbert’s own flawless cursive:  _Come, stay, read as much as your heart desires – but do not interfere with my work._

And so Kiku became a temporary fixture of the Berlin palace, a small, dark-eyed oddity amongst a people known for their pallor and height. He spent his days running errands in the city, his nights reading and scribbling notes by candlelight. His host was frequently absent, sometimes for days on end, but when Gilbert  _was_  home he was almost never alone. Kiku soon learned he was fond of conducting diplomacy over dessert and drinks, and long into the night, Kiku could hear his guests’ boozy laughter reverberating through the halls. Sometimes he would even catch a snippet of conversation, and it was difficult to resist the temptation to eavesdrop. But his place was in the library, he knew. He was to be silent and out of sight.

Gilbert never needed to scold him. He kept the floors and tables spotless, flattened maps, polished mirrors, straightened picture frames, scrubbed windows – kept up with a thousand minor chores only someone as fastidious as Kiku would think to check on. In return, his host would regale him with the latest continental gossip, or else launch into long, bitter tirades about who was menacing the balance of power  _this_  week. They could kill whole evenings that way – Gilbert rambling on over schnapps or coffee, Kiku listening in rapt attention. At times it could have almost passed for friendship. And Kiku knew that those disjointed fragments were more instructive than any army manual or political treatise he could hope to read.

Yet as the autumn days ticked by, and as his time in residence drew to a close, Kiku grew anxious.  His other European sojourns had all ended with a handshake, a signature, and a hard, stiff fuck. He had come to see it as more than a formality. It was another way for him to flatter and appease them, and in so doing, gradually improve his reputation. Surely Gilbert would be no different, he thought. Gilbert, with his ego and bloodlust. Surely anything Gilbert’s rivals had coveted would satisfy him, too – and they  _had_  all coveted him, Kiku was certain. Sex and trade were nothing to him now, and to them, intercourse with the exotic Orient was an exciting novelty.

But days before his departure, Gilbert still had not laid a hand on him.

And then the blizzard hit.

* * *

Kiku knelt on the cold marble floor, his shoulders hunched beneath his coat. The drawing room was lit with bluish snow-filtered sunlight, and the only sounds within its walls were the hiss of the fire and the scritch-scratch of steel on stone. His palms ached faintly from exertion.

His host had tasked him with polishing an assortment of antique swords. (For all their ignorance of Japanese customs, the Europeans seemed to know an awful lot about  _samurai_  and their blades.  Gilbert had simply assumed that Kiku, as a Japanese, must be an expert swordsmith. Thankfully for both of them, he was.) He had unpacked his whetstone set for the occasion, and they now lay spread out before him, slick with water.

He had spent most of the afternoon on a particularly corroded specimen. It was far heavier and wider than Kiku’s own sword, the flat of the blade etched with a tiny coat of arms and the pommel adorned with a cross. Once it must have been a fine weapon, but the steel was grimy and mottled with patches of rust.

It had taken some effort, but he’d managed to restore most of the sword’s original luster. He had finally started to hone its cutting edge when the sound of someone approaching interrupted him. Kiku felt a jolt; Gilbert’s heel-toe gait gave his footsteps a distinctly mechanical rhythm. He slid the blade back into its leather scabbard, just as the west-facing double doors opened with a creak.

For all he knew, he might not get another chance like this.

“How goes it?”

Kiku turned back over his shoulder as Gilbert approached him, crisp as ever in his officer’s blues. In reply, Kiku rose to one knee and offered his host the sword’s hilt. He was not sure if this was the most respectful way to hand a sword this size to one’s superior – a standing bow seemed improper – and when the Prussian began to chuckle, he feared he’d committed some terrible faux pas. Then, as if realizing Kiku was serious, Gilbert drew the sword. He adjusted his grip once or twice, feeling the weight of the steel in his hand. The mockery drained out of his grin.

“This is fine work.” He held it up to inspect it, his smile widening as it caught the light. “It hasn’t shined so brightly since the day I had it forged.”

“You flatter me, Mr. Beilschmidt.”

“Not at all.” He glanced at Kiku over the blade. “Remind me someday, and I will tell you the story of the first man I killed with this. You have me feeling nostalgic.”

In truth, Kiku had had a difficult time picturing someone as wiry as Gilbert wielding the sword. But as the man gave his weapon an exploratory twirl, he looked perfectly at ease. After a moment’s pause, Gilbert strode over to a velvet-lined rococo chair, dragged it up beside Kiku and took a seat. He held the blade point-down between his legs, his fingers clasped over the pommel.

“It is a shame I can’t keep you longer. I would have you do my hunting knives as well.” He sighed, his gaze settling on the sword’s hilt. “I have not been the most attentive mentor, I know, but I do hope you have found your time here somewhat… enlightening.”

“I have.” Kiku shifted slightly, still kneeling. “I cannot hope to convey to you my gratitude. I am still so unfamiliar with the rules of modern statecraft, of course, and there is so much I have yet to learn…” He hesitated, choosing his words. “But I have seen what rewards await me, if I continue to civilize myself. And you have given me something to aspire to.”

“Well, if I may speak for my friends on the continent – welcome to the world’s greatest gentlemen’s club.” Gilbert gave a few short barks of laughter and reclined back in his seat. Kiku inched forward. By the time the Prussian spoke again, the two men were barely an arm’s length apart – but if Gilbert noticed, he gave no indication of it.

“When do you return home? Forgive me, I’ve forgotten.”

“The first week of the new year.”

“Ah, yes. If the damn weather permits.” Gilbert’s eyes flicked over to the window. “They can’t even deliver the mail in this storm. It has only been a few days, and already I fear I have missed some crucial piece of correspondence – you know how quickly things can change. Wars have been started in less time, and for pettier reasons than a tardy post-Christmas ‘thank you’ letter. And given my luck this year, I will be on my fourth king by the time the snow melts…”

As he spoke, Kiku let a hand slowly slide up Gilbert’s knee to rest on the inside of his thigh. He was not used to being half so bold, but Gilbert himself was anything but subtle; perhaps all he needed was a more obvious proposition. As the other man trailed off, Kiku thumbed over the inseam of his pant leg, eyes fixed on his scar-crossed, angular face.

He saw the exact moment when Gilbert realized what was happening. His expression scarcely changed, save for an unreadable glint in his eye, but he forced himself to take a few deep breaths, as though trying to stifle a violent cough. Then he reached down, squeezed Kiku’s hand with painful force, and firmly peeled it away.

His voice was low and mirthless now, even if a hint of a smile still lingered on his lips. “But you know,” he started, not looking down, “I am glad to have a chance to see you before you leave. I think I have a final word advice for you, if you care to hear it. A bit of statesman’s wisdom.”

Kiku swallowed. This was not at all what he had expected. Dumbstruck and mute, he nodded his assent. Gilbert leaned forward in his chair, one hand grasping his sword as the other fell to his side.

“If you insist on calling yourself an empire – for I am not at all convinced that’s what you are, though you know how to fly a flag and fire a rifle and bow before a king – you had better start  _conducting yourself_  like an empire. That  _is_  what you came here to learn, yes? I do not imagine you traveled halfway across the world because you had always wanted to taste a German  _torte_.” Gilbert chuckled dryly. “Though… I suppose I would understand if you had.”

He paused, only then meeting Kiku’s gaze again. The reproach in his eyes stung like a blow. When the Prussian began again, he lifted his sword in one hand, raising it lazily up over his shoulder.

“Nothing cheaply gotten is worth having. The only things we strive to keep for ourselves are the things we must take from others – gold and land. Now–” He brought the blade down again, letting the flat gently tap Kiku’s right shoulder. “–you may wonder why I agreed to let you have the run of my library, to learn all my tricks and strategies.” He lifted it again, arcing it over Kiku’s head. “I assure you I have my own reasons–” He tapped Kiku’s left shoulder. “–not the least of which is that it’s much easier to predict how a man will behave in battle if you’re the one who taught him to march.” The sword swung over his head a second time, coming to a rest on his right shoulder again. “But frankly, Honda, if I had wanted anything else from you, I would have already gotten it.”

Kiku’s eyes traced the length of the sword, from the tip to the guard to its owner’s hand. Gilbert licked his lips. As he continued, he twisted the blade so that its cutting edge pressed against the side of his guest’s throat. Kiku arched his neck, the icy kiss of steel against his skin. His heart pounded in his chest.

“Your only allegiance is to yourself, presently, which is more than I can say for the better part of my own sorry continent. I know that will not last. But I am not interested in signing myself away to a man who has only his own flesh to offer as payment. Sex is a cheap replacement for power. A brief moment of pleasure. But a man can find other ways of sating his urges. It costs you nothing to offer yourself to someone; it costs me a great deal to accept. You would try to tempt me into an alliance – no, to  _indebt_  me to you – with something so valueless? Have you learned nothing from these last few months, or do you think I’d be so easily flattered as to think you’d only thrown yourself at me?” He spat the words, his upper lip curling, his tall nose wrinkling in disgust. “I cannot speak for the rest of Europe, but I am stupidly proud, not proudly stupid. You would do well to learn the difference.”

Gilbert withdrew the sword from Kiku’s neck, crossed his legs, and balanced the flat of the blade on his knee. It was a decidedly less regal posture than he’d struck earlier, but somehow his sudden change of tone made Kiku find him all the more intimidating.

“One last word.” The hateful snarl was gone from his voice, and he gave a wicked little grin. “If I ever see you groveling like that again, I – or a close personal friend of mine, somewhere east of here – will sail an army into Tokyo Bay, burn your little capital to the ground, rebuild it all in brick and cobblestone, and name it New Brandenburg. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” Kiku murmured.

“Wonderful.” He uncrossed his legs, stood, and lightly tossed the sword. It landed an inch in front of Kiku’s toes, clattering across the marble floor with a metallic clang.

“Now  _get up_ ,” Gilbert commanded. “It’s time you start packing your things.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Steff for research help.


End file.
